Just last Saturday I was working hard, watching movies as I lay on the sofa (purely research for writing…honest) and shoving healthy snacks like potato chips, Peanut Butter M&M’s, and beer in my face (you have to keep the calories up if you’re working hard –and don’t even get me started on hydration). As per usual, my thoughts were everywhere: on the movie, on the food, on the beer, on what we were going to have for dinner, and why the dogs can’t clean up their own dog run. That’s when I realized something (I do have occasional single thought bursts): I’d just watched a good guy –Judge Dredd—shoot a bad guy –generic bad guy name—in the head. This in itself isn’t unusual in films today, but as I stuffed my mouth with M&M’s and washed them down with beer I realized that I was watching everything in slow motion. The bullet moved at a rate of about two feet per hour. It pushed on the bad guy’s forehead a bit before punching through. It came out the back of his head in a slow-motion explosion of red and grey gore. I think some of the spray even ended up on the camera lens, but by this time the action had sped up again. And then I wondered how I could eat M&M’s and drink beer while watching a guy’s head explode and not even think too much about it. I figured it out right away. Desensitization. Of course, I had to pat myself on the back for a bit because I’d used a word with more than three syllables, but once I got my mind back on track I thought some more on the concept itself. It didn’t bother me to watch this gore-fest, because I’ve seen it in films so many times before; I’ve become desensitized. I’ve never been in combat, but through films I’ve seen people shot, exploded, stabbed, parts cut off, hit, beaten, crushed, dismembered, tortured, water-boarded, and even put on the receiving end of some pretty severe noogies. It’s a wonder we all don’t have PTSD. I read an interview with a filmmaker recently, who was quoted as saying that given the special effects and CGI capabilities they have now, they can literally show you anything you can imagine on the big screen. The only limitation is money. Think about that: Anything. You. Can. Imagine. That’s both exciting and a bit scary –I guess depending on your imagination. Ah, but therein lies the rub. (Okay, now I’m giving myself mega-kudos for using ‘desensitization’ and quoting Shakespeare in one blog post…but back to what I was saying.) By providing us with ultra-slow-motion, ultra-detailed effects, aren’t filmmakers actually killing our imaginations? They’re showing us everything and our imaginations don’t have any room to get its groove on. For example, when I was a kid we watched “The Adventures of Superman” on television. Of course, there were only three channels, but we’d have watched it anyway. George Reeves played Superman. Google a picture. The Superman of yesteryear looked nothing like the Superman of today. The Superman of yesteryear had a potbelly. He had no muscle definition whatsoever. He even had a bit of a waddle under his chin. When he flew he would run a couple of steps and jump. You could literally see him starting to come back down before the camera cut away to his flying. Poor George looked like he was straining to keep his head up and his arms level with his body. His belly sagged a bit. He looked unsteady –as though Superman hadn’t read the rules on drinking and flying. You could see the wires! Small wires at his shoulders, waist and knees lifted him off the ground. The only other effect was a long “Whoooooooooosh,”—supposedly the air he carved through like a red and blue marshmallow. You knew that after filming that twenty second shot George probably had to go for a smoke break and a drink. They used the same shot over and over and over and…well, you get the idea. But here’s the thing… WE DIDN’T CARE! We loved it anyway. Our little imaginations kicked into overdrive. We could overlook the potbelly, the wires, the awkward takeoff, the cheap suit and cape. We could ignore all that because for those twenty seconds we were Superman. Our imaginations filled in all the plot and productions holes and delicately painted over all the cheap effects. It was the same with Batman. As a kid, I wanted to be those heroes. I wanted to be those guys. I knew I could be those guys. Hell, now at 53, I could still probably be those guys. Today, Superman’s body is perfect. Ripped muscles (or is it cut? I forget), six-pack abs, hair perfect. Batman is the same. And when the newer Superman flies, it looks, sounds and feels like he’s actually flying. My imagination doesn’t have a single thing to work with here. Everything is provided. And I sure as hell can’t imagine myself being one of these new superheroes. They look like they spend eight hours a day at the gym. The closest I get to a gym is when I drive past one on my way to get a donut and coffee before work. I miss the old heroes. The ones that allowed me to use my imagination –which was much better than any special effects they had. Just for nostalgia’s sake, I think this afternoon I might do what I did years ago when I was a wee-shaver. Mom would safety pin a towel around my neck and for an hour or so I was Superman. Or she’d let me run around the house in my undies, rubber knife in hand (yes, they actually sold those as toys) and be Tarzan for a while. I usually passed on playing Batman, because he had so much crap in his utility belt that even a five-year-old me did some major eye-rolling. But if I do that now the neighbors might start talking again and there’s the chance my wife could walk in on me. The neighbor thing would be bad. The wife can be a wild-card. She might actually enjoy a bit of pretending too. Maybe I should reconsider that utility belt... Nah. I think I’ll get back to watching movies and stuffing my face with M&M’s and beer while someone else provides the imagination for me. It’s a whole lot safer and easier that way. Dammit.

I'm beginning to lose interest in social media. I know there are those who would argue that social media allows us to stay in touch with those whom we wouldn't otherwise. If that's the primary argument, then maybe it's time to reconsider our relationships, what we're willing to invest in them, and what we mean to each other. Others might argue that it puts us in touch with those who we might not otherwise encounter. But that seems to me to be a very tenuous connective thread. Phone calls would be nice. God knows I've come to realize that social media doesn't work as far as promoting your individual art or craft. Those who are truly interested will stay in contact and will remain interested in your work, because they will know they've influenced it and are part of it. Others...well, if their primary intent is only to make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, then I say it's a mild opiate that works to lure you into a desire for the stronger stuff. Sharing your work --no matter how diligently you've worked on it or crafted it-- is the same as giving it away for free. And as we all know, anything given to us for free has little or no intrinsic value (which explains the few 'likes' or comments I receive --including from my own family). Those who appreciate your creations, your art, will find it. Social media or no. I think I've come to realize that FB, LinkedIn, and others are, at best, simply not worth it. In a larger degree they give us all a false sense of belonging. Those you want in your life --in whatever degree-- will find that place in your life. If your only connection is through social media, then perhaps a reevaluation is necessary of each of us and our relationships. Of course, these are merely random musings from a middle-aged curmudgeon. And however you might feel about it, please know I wish you all well.

I recently witnessed what I can only hope was a social anomaly. I waited in line at my local grocery store, reading over the latest gossip magazines and catching up on all the important celebrity news (hey, I’m nothing if not an informed citizen). That’s when I looked up. Big mistake. I’ve learned over the years that keeping my head down is often best for everyone, particularly myself. I think the sounds were what caused me to break my usual habit. Two ladies stood in line in front of me. They wore knee high boots with about 18 inch heels and lots of buckles and straps, --a style flashback to the ‘70’s or ‘80’s. Pants and boots so tight I envisioned their knees choked off and gangrene. The part of their knit tops that was supposed to cover their cleavage had been removed and reattached to the bottom backside so it stretched to cover their butts –kind of like putting a stocking cap over the trunk of a car. They held phones the size of bricks and probably far smarter than them. They’d carefully applied their makeup with a paint roller and spatula. Eyelids so dark I thought maybe they’d either been assaulted or cross-bred with a raccoon. They may have used an industrial paint sprayer to apply enough hairspray to keep their hairstyles in check. But it was the sounds they made that originally drew my attention. Every second word was “Ya-know” which I’m smart enough to know is a contraction of “Ya’ll understand…” I tried to mentally insert “As you are aware…” and “as you probably understand” as they talked but my mental editing couldn’t keep up with the barrage of Ya-know’s Every third word was “Like,” which I took to mean “…and then he/she said…” All this while chomping on gum which reminded me of a cow chewing on its cud, but hey, I’m a country boy at heart. I’m sure there was a conversation somewhere between the “Ya knows” and the “Likes,” but damned if I could find it. I didn’t mean to stare, but I simply couldn’t help it. Their dress, makeup, and style was so over the top it was as though E.T. was pushing his glow-in-the-dark fingertip at me trying to say “Wiiiilllllliiiaaaam…” Not that my staring really mattered. They were completely oblivious of anyone else even being in the grocery store. When the woman in front of them completed her purchase and moved on, they stayed where they were and continued talking in tongues. I waved to one, caught her attention and politely said, “The register is open now.” With a nod of my head I indicated there was no one in front of them anymore. If her makeup, dress, oratory skills and general, overall attitude hadn’t made her ugly before, the look she gave me then certainly did. She looked at me as though I was an unsavory bug she just now noticed on the floor behind them. It quickly passed through my mind that she might even spit on me, I was so lowly. The two edged forward, continued their cud chewing and mooing, completely ignoring the nice lady ringing up their purchases. Apparently, she wasn’t worthy of more than a disgusted glance either. And when they were done dealing with the likes of us and able to rise back to the level they apparently thought they descended from they walked away. When they walked away? They minced. Now, I’d heard of “mincing” before, but I think this was the first time I’d actually witnessed it. Even more impressive: they defined the elusive act of “mincing” while wearing boots that, had they fallen, would have been the equivalent of dropping from a second story window. And here’s the part where I get myself in trouble. I laughed. I laughed even while knowing this image would –sadly—not soon fade away. They stopped, slowly turned around and gave me the disgusted look again, but this time she arched a painted eyebrow just enough to indicate she wondered what I was laughing at. For some reason I had the idea that they would find it funny to share in the joke. “You’re mincing when you walk.” I choked out through my laughter. “That’s just so…perfect.” I knew then they didn’t share my humor. One waved at me and, like the teenager I’d met a couple of months ago, she was disabled, missing three fingers and a thumb. I was still laughing, so I missed what the other one said. Something like, “Trucks moo!” Which didn’t surprise me because it made about as much sense as their previous discussion. They minced a bit more quickly out of the store and I finished my purchase. Through the whole thing, the cashier was smart enough to ignore us all. I’d like to be able to say that these women were simply teenagers still attempting to discover and define themselves and who they were. I’d like to be able to say they were early twenty-somethings attempting to attract the male of the species (as nature often works) so they could bravely go forward to continue the species. Sadly, I can’t say either. At their youngest I’d guess their age somewhere in the mid 40’s. Clearly their speech and walk didn’t correlate with their age. Later, it got me to thinking about my own way of speaking and my own way of walking. I tend to speak low and softly, often causing folks to ask me to repeat what I’ve said. My walk is, I think, fairly straightforward. I put one foot in front of the other and try to keep the forward momentum going. That’s it. But if I’m starting to notice others’ ways of speech and movement, maybe I should focus on my own a bit. Maybe there are those noticing mine. So now I’m attempting to enunciate a bit more clearly, but hang onto the lowness of my voice. I’m trying to put just a hint of swagger in my walk, but not so much that it’s noticeable or causes me to throw out a hip. Who knows? If I can refine the speech and swagger enough I might even brush upon a little bit of cool. But I’m certain I won’t push it too far. Now that I’ve seen it in action, I will never mince.